Teaching ESL and EAP

She ran; madly she ran,
asking for mustard seeds,
only some, a little,
a handful of mustard seeds
to cure her son.

She ran; madly she ran
from one house to another,
where none had ever died,
asking for mustard seeds,
from a family of immortals.
“She is mad; her endeavor is mad;
it’s as futile as that squirrel mother’s act,”
onlookers thought; none spoke,
but she ran; madly she ran.

She started at dawn
when dew was glistening,
and bubbles were dancing
to the tune of oil lamps.
She ran; madly she ran,
passing the dying buds and roses,
burnt by the scorching sun,
but still she ran; madly she ran.

She ran; madly she ran,
with no food, with no drink,
with disheveled hair, loosened clothes,
while tears of blood were pouring
from her aching, motherly breasts.
She ran; still she ran, madly she ran.
“Sister, your run is mad;
we are mortals but not immortals,”
they said, but she ran; madly she ran.

She ran; faster she ran;
madly she ran,
until the sun died,
the life giver and killer died,
and till houses and trees wore
black veils to mourn for his death,
she ran, madly she ran.

Suddenly, her tears stopped;
she stopped, but with her son,
the lifeless flower,
still in her arms.

Like this:

A debate between two Williams
the Topic was old realism
the place I can’t remember
but there were three members
Williams stood for each hemisphere
Having great records as a spellbinder
and knowing the art of ending walls
Dionysus stood for both poles
In the old one
he gave one
more chances
but had no chances
this time, for such monkey dances

You oft escaped into unspoiled villages
and wrapped damsels in fancy images
You wandered only in corrupt places
and drew images of weary faces

You drew children as innocent flowers
and danced with them for many hours
Your children suffered from deficiencies
men were venomous as poisoned trees

You were so ensnared by all those -isms
You mean humanism criticism or tourism
Nay feminism and all those notorious -isms
Sure however except elitism and escapism

Stop your whining I love you both alike
you draw images as godlike or ghostlike
based on what you’ve seen how you view
your stances you need to view and review

Like this:

A cuckoo chick little, cute very little
awoke from a dream, but not very peaceful.
He shivered in fear recalling the warning
by mother crow kind about his shrill cuckooing.
She promised him that the training of his voice
would make him caw, and he would feel rejoice.
Fear of torture made him try a silly attempt
not knowing that it would make him just repent.
A herald’s call of caw for a sudden attack
kept war heroes ready without any setback.
This tempted cuckoo chick, to try a sudden flight;
the rest I can’t say because it’s a sorry sight.

Like this:

The potholed road in the mid will lead me to be
a tragedian, who may ruthlessly be ridiculed,
or viciously be poisoned, if cannot be enticed,
for seeking or bravely revealing the agonizing truth;

who dare use their voice for those of Medusas,
whom his atrocious story has turned into worshipers,
with long-nosed and hairy-chinned, rude gossipers,
deceitful snake charmers and distorted spell-binders;

who may strip the blind veils of cultural fetters,
and compel men to see how T-Rexes are devouring
women, children and diverse other tiny creatures,
who need to exist to double the beauty of this globe;

who may ever be ready to shed warm tears of blood,
or fearlessly dare trouble any man-made trouble,
and when the whole world rapidly hurls down upon,
stand immobile considering it as an empty bubble.

Like this:

A crossroad I’ve reached,
where three roads meet,
which lead to three directions
with many different diversions.
Beauty, Tragedy and Satire,
name posts are hanging higher,
and I have to make a choice,
the right choice,
only one choice.

The first road will lead me to be
a satirist, a wordsmith very rude,
you met in Thesmophoriazusae
or in Shadwell’s perfect stupidity.
As part of a deliberate plan to hurt,
with an utterly rotten line of dirt,
a truly an innocent, honest heart
and get rot my own heart and art,
I can send to the history of dustbin
not for him committing a grave sin
or any pure, serious social offence
that he can’t seek any fair defence,
but, I don’t need any Greek to hide,
for refusing to stand in our own side.